creation of chaos
by astarisms
Summary: And from the ruins, an angel was born. Raguel creation fic.


He couldn't describe it, no matter how hard he tried. Later they would explain Creation to him, and he would listen with rapt attention, but for the moment he was at a loss.

Who was he? Where was he? What was he?

Glancing around with brand new eyes, he tried to take it all in. Everything was familiar and unfamiliar, comforting but unnerving, surreal and tangible at the same time.

There were slabs he knew to be stones, smooth and cool beneath his legs — he splayed his hands over them as well, to feel more.

There was grass dotted with colors he knew to be flowers, fragrant and calming in his nose — he leaned forward towards them, to smell more.

There was birdsong and buzzing he knew to be the wildlife, pleasant and miraculous in his ears — he tilted his head in every direction, to hear more.

There was something crisp and refreshing he knew to be the air, dizzying and new all around him — he breathed in deep with lungs he didn't need, to taste more.

There was sunlight and clouds and blue he knew to be the sky, brilliant and inconceivable overhead — he craned his neck back as far as it would go, to see more.

Eager to do, see, know more, he scrambled to his feet. He curled his toes against the uneven rocks, marveling at the green that sprouted between the cracks but only for a moment. He raised his head, looking all around him.

Temple, the voice in his head whispered to him. This was a temple, or at least what was left of one. The stone walls could have reached towards the sky, had they not been crumbled and fallen over themselves. There were few columns left standing at their full height, most having succumb to — to what? He didn't know.

He didn't find it very important, either. A flash of color caught his eye, and he made a beeline for it. He stepped over the ruins carelessly, hearing the rocks slip against each other as he passed over them, of pieces breaking off and raining down onto the lower ledges.

Little attention was paid to the collateral damage to his curiosity, and instead he focused with avid scrutiny on the long stretches of cloth hanging onto the structures that hadn't yet been victim to whatever had taken the rest of it.

They were decorated intricately, from top to bottom, with images. One featured hands, bringing up life and all its essential nonliving components, most of which he recognized from his sparse few minutes of recollection, the rest of which he just knew. Another depicted a man and a woman in a beautiful garden with a fruiting tree, the woman following the direction of a serpent with golden eyes, and the couple being cast out while the jeweled eyes looked on from the wreckage. Another showed a great city, befelled with ten days of horrific plague, and a mass migration of those kept as slaves out of the ruins. On another, a flood that wiped out all but those present on an arc, a family and two of each animal.

There was an involuntary tug of his lips — a smile — at the scenes spread out before him, a little rush coursing through him he couldn't describe. He spun around, his eyes darting over the rest of the structure, looking for more.

He scoured the ruins for what he could find of the shimmering tapestries, so out of place in the rubble. They looked like new, still vibrant and whole and rippling in the breeze that ruffled his hair. He reached out to touch another in awe, and the fabric was soft between his fingers.

Their depictions fascinated him, left him restless, itching for something. There was a fire, bubbling up beneath his skin, to follow in his Father's footsteps. There was a desire, rooted so deep he felt it in his bones, to walk along the path that was so clearly laid out for him beneath the dust and debris.

There was some buried understanding that this behavior was a thing of the past, that his Father now embodied love and forgiveness, but if He had wanted a loving and forgiving son, wouldn't He have created him elsewhere? This was a testament to what he was supposed to do, to how he was supposed to be — this was it. It was a sign, a guide for him. He was sure of it.

He climbed what he could, steadying himself until he stood at the highest point of the wreckage, looking out over everything that was new and old to him. There was a buzzing that made his fingers twitch, a nagging sensation that made standing still feel like a prison of his own making.

Before he could linger more on that, he saw something move in the distance. His eyes locked on them, widening in surprise. They were like him!

He was momentarily taken aback, by the recognition of similarity, when he didn't even know what he himself looked like, when he only had some abstract concept of what he was. But he didn't have much time to consider the strangeness of it all, when they approached and a distinctly different sound touched his ears.

 _Voices_.

Did he have a voice? Inherently, he knew he must have — if they did, and they were like him, then he had to have own of his own.

He raised his hand and waved, making his way back down to meet those he knew to be his siblings, and for the first time, he spoke.

"Hello!"

Their lips curved much like his had minutes ago in wide smiles as they grew closer and the cacophony of voices began to overwhelm him instead of comfort him.

"A new brother!"

"What's your name?"

"Where you Created here?"

"Have you been alone long?"

The small group reached him finally, and suddenly there were four sets of hands on him, embracing him and leading him away from his birthplace. There was talk of bringing him home, but the word didn't sit right with him.

When he thought of home and the implications that the word should have…

He glanced over his shoulder, one last look at the temple that had given him his purpose. And as it faded from view and he turned back towards his brothers and sisters, he had his answers.

He was Raguel, born among the ruins of his Father's inclemency, and he was alive.


End file.
